


Kanaya,

by homostriders



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Break Up, F/F, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:14:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homostriders/pseuds/homostriders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many places, in this home of mine, that offer refuge when tragedy strikes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kanaya,

Kanaya,

There are many places, in this home of mine, that offer refuge when tragedy strikes. I cannot begin to describe to you all the numerous nooks and crannies and ‘hidey-holes’ peppered around, so vast are their quantities, but you must understand that none have gone unexplored. I find myself in one again, this one a tried and tested favourite, located in my bedroom. You’ll remember it, of course you will. You’ll tilt your head to the side and squint in slight concentration, trying to conjure a vaguely accurate map of my room in your mind’s eye. If you open the doors of my armoire, and peer through the swathes of fabric hanging untidily upon mismatched hangers, you’ll see it: a nest of blankets, accompanied by a torch that is in dire need of a battery change, so weak is the light it casts. It may seem uncomfortable and basic, but trust me, dearest, it serves its purpose. Tears have been shed, are being shed, and will continue to be shed here, until I finally leave my home, and must seek out a new place of refuge. The hems of the copious amounts of dresses in here brush against my cheek like your soothing caress, as though the thread that runs through them is an extension of you, and thus can comfort me as you always have.

You made them for me, each and every single one as beautiful as the last. You would invade any open floor and desk space available, covering it in mountains of neatly folded fabric in a myriad of colours and patterns, and you would pin and iron and sew and measure relentlessly, a seemingly ceaseless source of creative energy, up until you finished. Even after what felt like the hundredth dress, the magical sensation of slipping the garment on was not lost. I must admit, a large part of that euphoria was due to seeing the satisfaction and pride in your smile, rather than trying on the dress itself. You always insisted that I was your muse, or something of the sort, that outfits and designs effortlessly fell into place when you gazed at me. I dismissed it, but in retrospect, maybe I was wrong to do so. I do not have the mind of a seamstress, after all. All that ever mattered to me was your distressing habit of storing pins between your lips, pursing them to ensure the slivers of metal did not escape your grasp. I would fret and chide you every time, worried that you would pierce the delicate skin. You would ignore the warnings and playfully smile, replying with a quip about the only danger of the practice being getting lipstick on the pins and, as a result, on your work. Your lipstick was the shade of shimmering obsidian, twice as glossy, and faintly tasted of bittersweet dark chocolate whenever I stole a kiss. I remember. I remember, I remember the lilt in your laugh, the way light positively danced in your eyes, the warmth of your skin pressed against mine, the scent of your spiced perfume sprayed generously on your neck, the carefully styled flicks of your cropped, raven hair. But most importantly?

I remember being in love with you, Kanaya Maryam. I remember being enamoured with you, enchanted by the light you radiate.

That light charms everyone. My late mother was no exception, the impressionable old thing. She insists that you’re good for me, that you made me happier than I’ve been in a while, and I’m inclined to agree. I distinctly remember her telling me, in the best rendition of a stern, matronly tone she could muster, that I was only to love people that bettered me, and that I would, in turn, better. She had somebody like that, a man that was not my father, she explained. I fondly remember her waxing lyrical about him, and I suppose I was prone to doing the same about you to her. There are an embarrassing amount of parallels between her and I, Kanaya. That’s not something pleasant to admit, considering the circumstances. Her life lessons weren’t typical, save for the romantic advice, as such. Who else taught their young child advanced chemistry, after all? Regardless, she would often wink, and whisper with a slurred voice over the crystal rim of her martini glass as though it were an incredible secret, that a drink when things were going rough never hurt anybody. I would nod to placate her and silently vow never to resort to doing exactly that, but here I sit, nursing a half-full bottle of vodka, balancing the aforementioned dying torch on my shoulder precariously, my pen in one hand and the bottle in the other, taking sips at regular intervals. It’s odd that I chose to refer to it as half full, seeing as my outlook is anything but optimistic, isn’t it? Ironic, even. No matter.

Look: I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I wasn’t satisfactory for long. I’m fully aware that this is my fault, that I was the one dragging this out and hoping for the best, clutching at straws. All I can really hope is that I didn’t make the last moments too unbearable, that I wasn’t too clingy or desperate or needy or a multitude of other irritating things. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much, that there is actually something nice about me left for you to remember, something amidst the threadbare conversation and fraying patience and sheer boredom.

I like to think you loved me, once. I am kidding myself, letting myself down gently, because of course you didn’t love me. You lusted for me. You found me attractive for a while, kept me as your ‘muse’ until I lost all appeal, and then left me. It’s not even as though you left me for somebody better, no – you too are single, and would actually prefer to be alone rather than suffer through even another hour with Rose Lalonde by your side, pining and insisting she loves you.

I do not mean to sound bitter, beloved, it simply cannot be helped, given my circumstances. Alcohol loosens the tongue you see.

I’d like to say I’ll get over it.

But I’m not a liar, Kanaya.

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! Ok this is the first thing I'm shoving on here, and I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> This was inspired by the poem Quickdraw by Carol Ann Duffy, which you should totally check out!


End file.
